Sin Bin (Blades Hockey Book 2)

by Maria Luis

  She flashes me a pleased smile. “I’ll think about tacos for the both of us, don’t worry.”

  Glancing down at the hard-on my jeans are doing nothing to hide, I mutter, “Easy for you to say. You don’t look like you’ve got a hockey stick in your pants.”

  And then, tease that she is, she follows the direction of my gaze and bites down on her lower lip. “Tempting as it is to go straight home with you, Andre, I want food.”

  You’re supposed to be wooing her. Stop thinking about your dick.

  That’d be easier if I wasn’t seeing different colors in my peripheral thanks to all the blood being south of my hips. I blindly reach out for the door to the restaurant, pulling it open for her like a true gentleman. “Food. Tacos. Don’t mind me while I sit here starving the whole time.”

  With an arched brow, she asks, “You’re not going to eat?”

  “Oh, I will.”

  Her expression darkens. “I’m so confused.”

  I lean down, brush her hair back from her face, and kiss the sensitive flesh next to her ear. “I’m starving, honey, but only for what’s between your legs.” I don’t give her the chance to respond. Instead, I place my hand to her back, usher her inside, and tell the hostess, “For two, please.”

  Really, I should have said three.

  At this rate, my erection might as well have a zip code of its own.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  ZOE

  I think . . . I think that I’m on a date with Andre Beaumont.

  It’s tough to say, really, because I didn’t think that Andre did the whole dating thing, but there’s no denying the fact that he’s being . . . charming. Playful. Sexy in a way that makes my toes curl in my shoes and my heart beat out of control.

  “Tell me something that happened to you in the last year,” he says as he spoons salsa onto his al pastor taco. “First thing that comes to mind.”

  First thing that comes to mind? I take a sip of my soda, buying myself time. “Well, right before I left Detroit, I sold everything. Ended up living in a hotel for a few weeks.”

  Dark eyes pin me in place. “That’s the best you can do, Zo? You lived in a hotel?” He sets his taco down, wiping his hands on a cloth napkin, and then drops his elbow to the table. “Let the professional go first.” He says this with a sardonic tilt to his mouth, never letting me forget that he’s still Andre Beaumont, the most feared player in the NHL.

  But then he goes and spoils the image by chuckling softly. “First day with the—wait, what did Hunt say?”

  “When?”

  “At The Box—oh yeah, setting the scene. All right, let’s do it right, eh?” He drinks his water—nothing less for his temple of a body—and then spreads his hands wide, like he’s about to start wind-milling them.

  Laughter threatens to let loose from my chest. “What the hell are you doing, Andre?”

  His brow furrows, drawing inward. “Setting the scene.”

  Leaning back in my chair, I fold my arms over my chest. “Is that what you’re doing?”

  “I’m drawing the curtains . . . You know what? Forget the scene bit.” His full mouth presses together. “Okay, so there I am in the locker room. We’ve just finished with practice, and I’ll admit that I was being a bit of an asshole—”

  I grin, just a little. “Nothing out of the ordinary, of course.”

  He returns the grin, along with a sexy wink that has my thighs clenching together under the table. “Exactly, honey. Anyway, maybe I’d ticked off some of my teammates, maybe they were already planning this shit, but I’m getting ready to put away my equipment.” His dark eyes glimmer with the memory. “Now that I think about it, I should have known those bastards were up to something with the way they kept watching me. Anyway, I open my locker door and bam! Ice.”

  I clap my hand over my mouth to stifle the laughter. The image of Andre Beaumont, King Sin Bin, standing in front of his locker as ice cubes rain down on him is just . . . perfect. Utterly, absolutely perfect. “What did you do?” I ask between bursts of laughter.

  “What do you think?” He digs back into his plate again, taking a bite of his taco before topping it off with more water. “I cleaned that shit up, griping and threatening anyone who came close.”

  “Am I supposed to apologize on their behalf?”

  His foot touches mine under the table, then doesn’t move. I suck in a deep breath and then meet his gaze. “Nah, honey. The ice was nothing. The fact that they spent the next week leaving plastic critters in my duffel bag was worse. Roaches, snakes, crickets, you name it. I think they got a sadistic thrill out of making me shriek.”

  “No, of course not,” I say, pressing a hand to my chest in mock-surprise. “Making the league’s most intimidating enforcer shriek? Utterly boring and so not worth their time.”

  But Charming Andre has come out to play. In response to my sarcasm, he puckers his lips and murmurs, “Kiss me and I’ll forgive you for the sass.”

  “No way.” The giggles threaten to take over. “The sass is here to stay.”

  “Perfect, just the way I like you.” He pushes up from his seat, dropping his napkin to the table, and comes around to my side. “A kiss, honey. Just one.”

  Heart, stop doing somersaults. I lift my chin. “You had a kiss.”

  “One wasn’t enough.” His voice lowers, sucking me in. “A hundred will never be enough.”

  And that’s when I realize—I’m pretty sure this is a date. He’s right, too, about the kiss thing. A hundred will never be enough, not for me. I tip my chin back, silently telling him to go for it, to take his kiss and to stake his claim.

  But he surprises me. His lips don’t land on my mouth, as I expected, but my cheek. Then my nose. Then my forehead. The forehead kiss. Oh, God, this is a date. Heart squeezing with anticipation, I cup his cheek and bring his lips to mine. They collide, gentle, coaxing, so damn softly, and that’s when I know that Andre is trying to open up. He’s trying to be vulnerable. And that, more than anything, is sexy.

  He withdraws with a wink, then retakes his seat opposite me again. “All right, so, you heard from me. One thing that happened in this past year that I wanted you to know about. Tell me yours.”

  Considering that my last year has been consumed by thoughts of this man, I go for blunt honesty. “You know that TV show, 1000 Ways To Die?”

  Slowly, he nods. “Yeah, what about it?”

  Aboot.

  So cute.

  “Well,” I say, playing with my napkin, “I may have put a new spin on it.”

  Andre sucks in a breath. “Damn. Zo, I mean, I don’t really know any police officers but—”

  I hold up a hand, cutting him off. “I didn’t kill anyone. I may have just spent a lot of time thinking about different ways to . . . tie you up, and take my revenge for skipping out on me.”

  He doesn’t say anything.

  I don’t say anything.

  Welp, this just got awkward.

  But then he breaks the silence, his voice as dark as sin. “How many ways?”

  My shoulders jerk. “What?”

  His black eyes warm, and I feel the reciprocal heat in my lower body. “How many ways did you think of to tie me up?”

  Now you’ve done it. “Roughly one-hundred and seventy-five, if, you know, we’re taking into account locations in the world that I envisioned doing so.”

  In less than five seconds, it seems, Andre has dropped cash onto the table, our remaining food has been boxed, and we’re standing outside of La Cantina in the cold. Except that I don’t feel cold. If anything, I feel like I’m burning with fever.

  “Have somewhere to be?” I hear myself ask.

  “Yup.” Andre encircles my shoulder with his arm, pulling me to him, and plants a hot kiss on my lips. “We’re going back to my house, and you’re starting with the first item on your list. I have only one request.”

  My breathing is coming fast now, and I lift my gaze to his handsome face. “What’s that?” I w
hisper.

  His lips find mine again. “That you’re one-hundred percent naked.”

  I grin. “Done.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  ANDRE

  Three Days Left...

  I made a mistake.

  What kind of mistake, you ask?

  Well, the kind where I let the most beautiful woman I know into my bed for four nights in a row. The kind of mistake where I wake up early, just so that I have time to cook her eggs and bacon each morning. The kind of mistake where I text her throughout the day because I want to see how she’s doing.

  I stare down at my phone, ignoring the guys around me in the locker room. We’re padding up, ready to pull our shit together so we can hammer it out against the Boston Bruins. A city with two pro-teams is practically unheard of, and the NHL only acquiesced to the decision made by the Blades when the board rationalized some years back that two major hockey leagues would result in more income for the repairs to the arena. Nowadays, the Blades are as much of a city pastime as the Red Sox or the Bruins.

  I don’t think I’ve ever seen a rink this active before! Zoe’s text reads. Have I said thank you for the tickets yet?

  Hunching my shoulders so that Zoe’s words are for me alone, I type out: You did. But I do accept gratitude in other ways. Sex, kisses, massages. Pick your flavor.

  I can practically hear her laughing on the other side of the screen. Is this where I tell you that your Manhood is exactly what I need right now?

  I laugh out loud at that, and the sound attracts the attention of my teammates.

  “You good?” Harrison asks as he takes it upon himself to sit next to me on the bench. “You’re laughing like a weirdo when no one is around.”

  I flick my phone off. “Just talking a bit.”

  “With Zoe Mackenzie?”

  According to the Rules That Be, I shouldn’t have even kissed her. But I can’t regret it at all because she’s like a drug. I need her smiles and her laughter and everything else that is unanimously Zoe Mackenzie. “Just discussing some logistical PR stuff. That’s all.”

  “Like having sex with her?”

  My stomach caves. “No.”

  Duke pats my shoulder. “You’re delusional. The girl wants you. Go after somebody for once. Do the whole chasing thing that usually makes your dick shrivel up.”

  He’s right. I never do the chasing. I’d like to say that it’s in my DNA, but that’d be a lie. Once upon a time, I did the chasing. Haven’t for a while, though. Until Zoe, who I’m wooing. Jesus, even the word sounds ridiculous.

  Right now, she’s sitting up in the nosebleeds, the same way that she always did back in Detroit. It’s her favorite place, although I could have easily put her somewhere closer to the ice. Somewhere closer to me.

  Even so, the idea that she’s here, that she’s up in the nosebleeds waiting for me to take to the ice is like a high I forgot I needed to survive. To Duke, though, I mutter, “It’s not like that with us.”

  “Lies, dude. Lie to me, if you want, because I don’t really care one way or the other. But I hope you aren’t lying to her right now.”

  My gut clenches.

  How the fuck does he know that the guilt is piling in? Because as happy as I am, I’m not telling her everything.

  Fifteen minutes later, we’re on the ice and I’m not ashamed to admit that I use hockey like a stress reliever. As much as I talk about giving it up and moving to the Caribbean, I know I’d be bored with that life.

  For nearly a decade, hockey has been my identity.

  At least, it was until it wasn’t.

  For three years, I was someone else. Something else.

  The puck drops and I hesitate, my instincts lagging as the past threatens to pull me under.

  “And he’s lost it!” shouts the announcer into the arena microphone. “Jee-wiz, I can’t believe Beaumont lost that huge opportunity.”

  The announcer’s words are like a drill to my head.

  Get your ass back in the gear.

  For the rest of the period, I give everything that I have to the game. Adrenaline pumps through my body, and I soak it in. It’s that rush that puts me in place to receive the puck from McDermott. It’s that rush that allows me to angle my trajectory path to the net, seeing an opportunity between shoulder pads and ice skates.

  The puck hits the five-hole and the crowd goes wild. My teammates swarm me, lifting me up, even though I’m one heavy bastard, as they thump their gloved fists against my back for a job well done.

  My gaze hits the stands, climbing the rows in search of her face.

  I don’t see her, but I imagine her up there near the top, decked out in my jersey (I bought her my current one), jeans, and her ever-present stilettos.

  It’s the image that I carry with me as I finish the game. The announcers off-handedly comment on my lack of trips to the sin bin. For once, the nickname isn’t mentioned, and I’m beyond grateful.

  The guys and I towel off in the locker room after slick showers, and I force my way through an interview with the media, so that Walter Collins will get off Zoe’s case about revitalizing my reputation. She’s doing more than her fair share of work, more than I even realized until recently.

  I need to shape up, if for no other reason than I want to make her life easier.

  “You wanna go to The Box?”

  I glance up at Marshall Hunt, who’s got his towel slung around his neck and not much else on. “Nah, I’m good; thanks though.”

  Zoe and I have a date with food, and as much as I like the guys, they can’t win out over her.

  “Something tells me that your decline has a lot to do with the hot brunette waiting outside the locker room,” Hunt muses, a smile pulling at his pretty-boy features. “I don’t blame you.”

  This time, I don’t even bother with pretending that Zoe and I aren’t currently sleeping together. I offer my teammate a secretive grin, then hook my duffel bag over my shoulder. “Have a good time tonight,” I tell him.

  “You too, Beaumont!”

  I ignore his cackling and head straight for home base. As luck would have it, she’s exactly where Hunt said she’d be. And, Jesus, she looks amazing in my jersey. The navy blue and silver material is a tad long, so she’s tucked part of the hem into the waistband of her skintight jeans. Naturally, stilettos accompany the look. Her hair is down, wavy and full, and I don’t bother to stop myself—I drop the duffel on the ground, sink my hands into her soft hair, and angle her lips for a deep kiss.

  Her hand goes to my heart. “You played amazing tonight,” she murmurs, pulling back from me. “That assist with McDermott? So well-timed.”

  Her enthusiasm makes me laugh. “Can you think of it now? Two years ago, you didn’t even know what an assist was.”

  “Give me a little more credit than that, please.”

  “I’m sorry, baby, you’re right. I saw the Hockey for Dummies book you carried around. You were a quick study.”

  She doesn’t react to the endearment, and I suppose that’s a good thing. Two weeks ago, she would have nailed me in the balls for daring to utter it. Now, she only hums in delight, slipping her hand into mine as we wind our way down the hallway of doom toward the parking garage.

  As she launches into a story about Tia, her half-sister, finally gearing up the courage to ask her crush out, I can’t help but think she’s hinting that she wants more with me. I don’t do relationships. Ever. But lately, that’s what I want with Zoe.

  To come home to her each night. To slip my arm around her waist as we settle in the bed. To kiss her in the morning when her hair is a mess and her cheek has pillow imprints all over it.

  Fuck me, but I want that. I want all of that and more.

  “Date me.”

  The words are out before I can stop them, and she halts so abruptly that I lose hold of her hand. Her beautiful brown eyes are wide with shock, her mouth pursed into an O.

  “What?”

  Jesus. I’m screwing this up.r />
  With a glance over my shoulder to check if anyone has followed us, I rake my fingers through my hair, and repeat, “Date me.”

  “I heard it the first time.”

  “And?”

  “I guess I’m just a little shocked, that’s all,” she answers pertly. “Not to mention the fact that Mr. Collins will have my head if he finds out.”

  I tug at my earlobe. I would never ask Zoe to quit her job. The woman works way too hard just to give it up now. Which means . . . “I’ll find a new PR agency.”

  This time, her brows fly up high on her forehead. “What?”

  Warming to the thought, I nod my head. “Yeah, it’s perfect, actually. I mean, I won’t leave yet—you still have your trial run, and I’d never jeopardize that. But after, when they begin assigning you new clients, I’ll go elsewhere. That way, your work ethic isn’t being compromised—”

  “Andre, do you even know how many times you’ve compromised me in the last few days?”

  Her tone is wry, and I give it right back. My hands find her hips, as I gently push her back against the garage wall. I lean into her, giving her everything. “I’m all for compromising, baby. You up for another run?”

  She gives a startled laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”

  I lower my head to her neck. Now that the idea of us dating has been firmly planted, I can’t give it up. Everything else . . . I’ll tell her that in time, when it’s right. I shove those thoughts away and nip at her earlobe. “You know you want to say yes, Zo. Think of it now—late night trips to the grocery store to buy you your favorite potato chips. Days spent binging on Game of Thrones. Me in your bed . . . ” I thrust my hips gently against her, so she knows how hard I am.

  Her quiet hiss is like music to my ears, especially when she digs her fingers into my hips to keep me in place. “You push a hard bargain, Beaumont.”

  My thumb brushes over her cheek. “I’m a man who knows what he wants.”